


Reaching From Nowhere

by Missy



Category: Venture Bros
Genre: Bloodplay, Comfort Sex, F/M, Grief Sex, Rough Foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-21
Updated: 2010-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:59:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mol comes to comfort Brock just when he needs her the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaching From Nowhere

She came in the usual way - through the back door sometime past midnight, after disarming a few robots. Her resulting search was methodical and swift - he was not in the den, the west wing, the kitchen. A small thrill teased her cold flesh. The bedroom, then.

 

He sat alone in the dark on his bed, facing away from the door, his hulking form motionless but for the slow suck-release-suck of his mouth on a nearly-extinguished but smoldering cigarette. As she slipped inside - making not a sound - his right hand grasped and unsheathed his bowie knife as he rolled over onto his belly, hand springing over it and to the floor.

 

She had him on the floor, her own dagger at this throat, before he could take her to her back.

 

A bolt of blue-white light falls across his face - under the tan of his skin there's a grayish pall that disturbs her. The pressure behind her blade falters, and it's then that she sees recognition fire in his eyes. "Mol."

 

"Samson," she acknowledges in return. His bowie knife clatters to the floor, and she sheaths her dagger and kips to her feet with characteristic grace. "What is the emergency?" she asks, picking up the cigarette he'd lost in their tumble and taking a long, satisfying drag from it. She hands it smoothly back to him - he notices she's toked it down to the butt and extinguishes it on the toe of his boot as he sits up.

 

He sighs very deeply, scratching the back of his neck in a motion she finds somehow shy. "It's Doc."

 

She pretends to care, listening only because it's important to him. "Yes."

 

"He's dead."

 

Molotov stares at Brock, completely nonplussed. "You need me to watch the brats while you thaw clone?"

 

"There ain't any clones of him." Brock stares out straight ahead of himself. "He only cloned the boys. And you ain't supposed to remember that - you were drunk when I spilled my guts that night..."

 

She smirks, her face coldly superior. "Unlike you, Samson, I don't need top-level clearance to learn all there is to know about the Venture family." She watches his reaction carefully for a sign of rage, but his expression shows only a blank numbness. "How did Venture die? Gigantic spider attack? Did your government execute him?"

 

"Heart attack. In his bed. In his sleep." Brock's face twists into a parody of a smile. "Doc wasn't a warrior. I knew he wasn't gonna die like one."

 

The rarity of such an occurrence takes Mol back to her childhood - the last natural death she'd attended had been her mother's, years before her father involved her in his cold war spying program. Lost in her own thoughts, it's the sight of tears in his eyes - HE WANTED TO CRY, HER WARRIOR- that galvanized her into action.

 

She slaps him across the face. "Tears, Samson! Tears in the eyes of a God!" To drive away the weakness in herself - even worse, the weakness in her idol of worship - she shoves him onto his back, straddling his form. "Perhaps you need a little distraction?" Her fingers brush his bare chest in a way that usually arouses him instantly, but cold indifference greets her. She's rattled, but years of training blunt her expression. "Poor sad little Samson - weak as a little girl who's lost her kitten. Perhaps you need a little spice, nyet?" She locates her sais, withdraws them, laughs menacingly - and gets no reaction.

 

Her smile widens just before she drives the sais into the thickly-muscled flesh of his left and right pectoral muscles, directly above the nipples.

 

She is an expert at this sort of game - knowing how to cut the skin and poke the nerve without slicing the victuals and killing the "victim". She can kill him now, on a whim or a flick of her fingers, but she'll never do that - she worships him.

 

Playfully, she carves her initial upon his right pectoral - where his heart should be - making a physical marking to the emotional one she knows she's left behind.

 

Her palm presses against his right nipple, over his heart - thinking of it adds a new dimension to her play. How easily she could pierce his heart now - take his life, and then the lives of the Venture boys sleeping in the other room. But she would never do this - a death in bed was not a warrior's death.

 

The softer parts of her begin to come to life as she looks at the gorgeous mess she's made of his body - and the lifelessness of his eyes. The sais tumbles to the floor and make an ear-penetrating noise on contact.

 

Her lips fall to his flesh then, suckling at the cuts she's made, a she-wolf trying to clean the cuts of her battle-wounded mate. The tiny, artful slits are still bleeding, and they tease her mouth with the strange, complex, indescribable taste of his life. Mol nearly comes to orgasm when he hits her tongue, and she gulps and swallows what little she gets from him. Consuming the warrior, strengthening herself.

 

The kisses leave his chest, ply his throat, becoming frantic, consumptive. She looks up and meets his eyes.

 

She's on her back in a minute.

 

"That's enough, Mol."

 

She laughs. "There is no such thing as enough for the insatiable Brock Samson."

 

"I'm not in the mood, lady." He grabs both of her wrists, squeezing. "My best friend just died. There are two boys in the next room who don't know about it. They don't know their dad's gone, Mol, do you understand?"

 

"Nyet!" she snaps, grabbing his hands and squeezing hard enough to make his pupils dilate in rage. "I don't understand you, Samson! You waste your glorious talents babysitting two ungrateful brats! You could be the finest mercenary the universe has known. We could be -"

 

"We?" Brock grins. "We. Damn, Mol, you've never used 'we' when you talk about us." He was amused, and her cheeks flooded scarlet. "Holy shit, you're blushing!"

 

"Samson," she says. It's a plea. He lets go of her wrists and she lets go of his hands, lying obediently beneath him. "You are thinking of your Papa."

 

All of the anger in Brock's eyes dissolves, and his heavy body goes limp against hers. "Small difference. I never knew my dad, but the boys'll remember Doc. It's what he's gonna miss that's getting to me. He ain't gonna get to see Hank as a grunt, or Dean's first play." Brock brushed the tips of his fingers across her right cheek. "That's why I've gotta stay here 'til they're grown up."

 

Her eyes narrow. "You plan to waste three more years babysitting those boys?"

 

"It should only be three more years, too - now that the Monarch's busy with The Phantom Limb and Doc's gone, all of his arch enemies should leave the kids in peace."

 

"What about the insane woman who believes herself to be their mother? Mona?"

 

"Myra's the real reason I need to stay. She knows things that the boys don't need to know. Uh, and Doc willed the boys to me."

 

It's the harshest blow she can imagine. Her God was a nanny, and he told her as a little boy might. "You allowed yourself to be named Babysitter for Life?" She shrills.

 

"Who else was he gonna leave them to? He hates Jonas Junior, and there ain't any more living Ventures around. The boys are safe with me - and they're my family."

 

"What of me?"

 

"What about us, Mol?" Brock's hands knot themselves in her long red hair. "You wanna be free to do your own thing. I wanna be free to do mine."

 

"You lie, Samson. I see the need in your smile!"

 

"Yeah - I may be lying. Maybe I'll marry you, and you can quit being a free-lancer to stay home and raise little Samsons for years. Just like that chick in that spy show - you know the one - her daughter has wigs and the nice rack..."

 

"Irena. Alias."

 

"Yeah, Alias." He pushes his fingers to her scalp, cupping her skull. Easily, he could crush her brain. Mercifully, he doesn't. "Didn't Irena turn in Mister Bristow to the Ruskies?"

 

She understands his uncertainty - the slippery edge they are dancing upon. And yet there is only the night - a night that may be their last - and her own resistance between them.

 

"Yes. She had a duty to the Motherland - but my duty, Samson, is to myself." Easily, Mol disengaged herself from Brock's embrace, giving them space and air she reaches down, unzips her boots, allows them to hit the floor. The jumpsuit follows. He watches her activities silently, always on guard. "But in my mind there is always something to be denied, something to be held back from you. And so, perhaps I owe this day to you and me." She slides like a panther across the bed, lying flat. The chastity belt is still in place.

 

She slipped open a secret compartment upon it, a slat held in place with a screw hinge just below the belly button. With the tips of her red nails, she found a tiny silver key and held it out to him. "I leave the choice to you, Samson."

 

"You had the key all this time?" She wonders if he'll hit her - God, she hopes he will...

 

"I work for no one, Samson, and my body is mine to control. In truth I grow weary of the game between us -" the clicking of her chastity belt opening halts her speech, followed by the sound of the belt hitting the floor.

 

"Samson?" she says, her voice softer than it's been in years.

 

"Yeah?" he grunts, pulling her nude body against his jean clad front.

 

"Promise me."

 

"Mm?"

 

"You won't be gentle."

 

He laughs and, completely exposed for the first time in her life, she laughs with him.

 

***

 

They lay together, the only light in the room the glow from the tips of their cigarettes. Her head lies still on his chest, hair sprawled out and mingling in the dried blood. She reflects on the marvelous feelings singing through her body and smiles secretively at this new bit of fascinating knowledge.

 

It's the tenderness that proves a surprise this night - the affection he can't bring himself to talk about, that she's barely begun to understand. The violence that usually predeceases their groping is absent this day - they sought in each other something softer and soft was what she'd given him.

 

A hard knock upon the door sets them upright and Brock back into his jeans. He motions for her to stay still and quiet, but she responds with a roll of her eye and by unliberating a gun from her holster. He shakes his head at her quick thought, and then quickly creeps to the door. Flinging it open, he clicks the safety and points.

 

Dean Venture, frozen in mid-knock, shrieks and wets himself.

 

"Hey, Dean." Brock says, putting the safety back on. "What's up?"

 

"I heard a bunch of noises coming from here - it sounded like someone was getting killed and..." his eyes widen and then he squeaks, averting his eyes from the bed. "I'm sorry, Ms. Cocktease!"

 

Mol mutters a curse in Russian, cloaking herself in Brock's blanket.

 

"Everything's super, Dean," Brock utters, cranking his features into a wide, scary-looking smile. "Go back to your room and change your pajamas. I'll see you in the morning - and don't tell Hank you saw Ms. Cocktease."

 

"Got it." Dean salutes his friend jauntily before heading through the door. "Please don't tell Triana you saw me wet 'em."

 

"I won't. Night." Alone again, Brock made sure to close the door. "I should've locked the door."

 

"In Motherland, locks cost a thousand Rubles. I am used to disturbances."

 

Brock sits down at the edge of the bed, watching her warily. She stubs out the cigarette and reaches for him - again the affection in their embrace stuns her. She absorbs the scent of him - tobacco, beer, sweat, Stetson Cologne and lashes her tongue to his collarbone - the scent of a God, for a God, as he had heartily proved to her today, is what he is. Soon, he gives a brotherly slap to her back and they separate.

 

"I dunno where we're going, what's gonna happen after tomorrow...."

 

"That would be is a bore. I would not be here if I knew what you might do next, Samson."

 

Things had changed - that showed in the newness of his gaze on her skin. "Will you stay the night - until the funeral?"

 

"Perhaps. That wreck of a man was a friend of yours. I will attend your service and show him the respect I would any dog."

 

He smirks, burying his hands in her hair and pulling her close so that they're face-to-face. "Bitch."

 

She grins, grabbing his blond curls and pulling. "Slut."

 

The familiar exchange completed, they lose themselves in the tangle of sheets and sweat.


End file.
